Keep Me Safe All Through The Night
by Is Illuminated
Summary: While staying with her aunt and uncle, Daphne McNamara became the latest player of the boys' wicked games. Now she recalls what she had to do to ensure that she and her little brother won the bet, resulting in a dark new obsession she refuses to admit to.
1. Welcome

Everything around me is in motion. After an endless bombardment of questions – names, addresses, times, identifying features, what I remember, what I don't want to remember – they finally seem to have forgotten us on a bench outside someone's office. Theo is miraculously asleep beside me, curled on his side. I wish I had a jacket to drape over him, or at least one to wear; not one person has noticed that I am chilly in last night's dress, tight and short-sleeved and ripped at the side.

There had been no time to change.

Everyone is in a flurry of movement. Phones are ringing. From what I can overhear, even more officers have been dispatched to the house, and I even think I hear the FBI has been called. A female detective crouches by us for a moment to assure me that our parents are on their way. She slips a watery, microwaved hot chocolate into my hands and when I tell her thank you the words just barely squeak out. She asks me how I'm doing and my throat squeezes and for the first time it feels like I'm going to cry like a fucking five year old if I answer so I tell her that the drink is too hot instead. My tone is like a brick wall, and she apologizes and walks away. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could ask her to come back without waking up Theo.

"Daphne McNamara."

I open my eyes. The detective who questioned me earlier is standing with a man I do not recognize from my hours in the police station beside him. The man is reedy and young and frankly doesn't look like the type to have such an important-looking badge pinned to his jacket.

"Miss McNamara, my name is Dr. Miles Dillon. I work for the FBI. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

I knew this was coming. My story until now has been fragments and facts, just enough to get the crime scene going. I stand, giving a significant glance down at Theo – I haven't let him out of my sight for a moment since we got here. The detective assures me he will stay with him and I give him a grateful smile, though it comes out more stiff and awkward.

Miles Dillon leads me into the nearest room, which is only slightly more comfortable than the typical interrogation room I've seen on TV. I sit down across from him at the little table. He seems to have whatever my file is comprised of at this point.

"Miss McNamara—"

"Daphne," I interject, and he smiles kindly.

"Daphne," he begins again, taking a few sheets out from my file folder, "I'm a profiler for the FBI. If you could begin by walking me through the events of last night, it would greatly help us to identify and locate the two assailants you described to the detectives."

My stomach clenches. I am not sure what the feeling is, exactly. As I am trying to make my vocal cords work, some bit of information catches his eye in my file and furrows his brow.

"When you were asked to recall any identifying features about the men, you described the one who referred to himself as Paul as being tall, lean, blonde with blue eyes, mole by the left eyebrow, large freckle on the right shoulder blade, freckle on the chest, freckle on the left thigh." He pauses meaningfully. I know how it sounds. "Daphne, were you sexually assaulted?"

My eyes are suddenly unable to focus on anything except the hot chocolate in front of me. I am quiet for a moment, a more purposeful quiet than before. It feels like a very personal detail. "Does that matter?" I ask carefully.

"Yes. It affects the profile we make to try identify him. It helps to figure out his motives, his patterns, in the long run helping to locate him or predict his next move."

I am consciously keeping my mouth closed. I'm still not sure what I'm feeling. Miles repeats his question, no less kindly. Did he sexually assault me?

"I don't…" I pause and try again. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?" I don't reply. He is trying to understand me, but he can't. He thinks the phrasing is throwing me off. "Did he rape you?"

I am remembering the feel of hands on me. I answer finally. "No."

Miles looks between me and the sheet that shows the details I could only have known one way, and my eyes lock on to his for the first time. He understands now. "Daphne," he begins, and he is trying not to sound too shocked. I can forgive him that, though. If our places were reversed, I'd be shocked. Shit, I'd be nothing less than horrified.

I look away from him again. The back of my neck is hot. I need to explain myself. "You have to understand, I had to do something. I had to make sure they wouldn't hurt my brother. I had to play the only card I had."

**

Aunt Deb adjusted her rearview mirror, spying Theo squinting at his comic book in the backseat. "I'm sorry you kids weren't having a good time. Kind of a boring party, huh?"

"I didn't feel good," Theo said, reminding her of his excuse. She smiled, and I took a peek at him myself. He didn't look too sick to me.

"Yeah, which is exactly why you're reading in a moving car right now," I teased, and he scowled, looking up from the page he was on.

"Shut up Daphne!"

"Theo," Aunt Deb warned him, but without much threat behind it. She knew she wouldn't need to step in. For siblings with such a large age different – I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and Theo was ten – our spats were generally few and far between. We all fell quiet again, and Uncle Nick's SUV turned on to the road leading back to their vacation home.

Our parents had flown out to attend a friend's wedding in San Francisco, and instead of leaving Theo and I to our own devices, our aunt and uncle had invited the two of us to spend the weekend with them down at their house by the lake. We'd only just arrived that morning, at which point we'd driven over to their friends' anniversary party across the lake. It was a dressy sort of event, which was to be expected from the wealthy crowd my aunt and uncle were a part of. I had seized the chance to be shamelessly girly by pulling back my hair in a clip and wearing my favorite dress, a silky reddish number with fluttery short sleeves, a cinched waist and a clingy skirt, printed with birds that looked like some kind of abstract floral pattern until you got up close to it.

Predictably, Theo had been less thrilled, refusing to change out of his jeans and wearing the only button-down shirt he owned. He was bored out of his mind the second we walked through the door, and by the time the appetizers were served he was faking sick in order to leave. I couldn't really blame him – there was no one there under thirty besides the two of us, and if the house's expensive décor could only keep _me_ entertained for ten minutes, there was no hope for a ten year old like my little brother. Aunt Deb, though unfooled by Theo's fake stomachache, had kindly offered to drop us off back at their place, and I hadn't protested a bit.

"You guys know what you're going to do for dinner?" Deb asked as we pulled into the driveway. It was only a little past 5:30 and still light outside; we'd left before anyone had even sat down to eat. She looked up at Theo in the mirror as she stopped the car. "There's macaroni and cheese in the cabinet, if you think you can stomach it." She caught my eye and winked, and I smiled reflexively.

"I'll make it for him," I told her, unbuckling myself and watching as Theo practically launched himself out of the car. She rifled through her purse quickly, handing me a few bills before I even had my hand on the door handle.

"In case you want to order out," she explained, "And hey, if you get bored, the Kingsleys next door said you could feel free to drop by. They had some guests over earlier today, a couple of boys around your age. Not too hard on the eyes." She winked again.

"Gross!" Theo groaned, and I grinned. He was standing by my open window, waiting for me to get out.

"I'll keep that in mind," I laughed, folding the money into my bag and accepting a peck on the cheek as I climbed out of the car.

"We'll be back kind of late," Aunt Deb called out her car window as we crossed over to the front door, "Love you! Our cell numbers are on the fridge!"

We watched her turn the car around and begin to pull away before we headed inside. I made sure to lock the door behind me, never having felt totally comfortable being home alone – or in this case, alone with just my little brother. I couldn't expect a ten year old to be the man of the house, and he was even smaller than me; at five-foot-three and around a hundred and twenty pounds that were made up of almost no muscle at all, I was already a laughable choice to leave to defend the house. But what could you do? I was the older sister, and I was in charge. I eyed the metal baseball bat Uncle Nick had propped up by the closet as I headed into the kitchen, leaving my purse and cellphone on the counter nearest the doorway.

I opened a few cabinets in search of the macaroni, listening as I heard Theo flop on to the couch in the living room and switch on the TV. The poppy opening song of some preteen Nickelodeon show floated in through the doorway. I pulled down a pot from the shelf, squinting at the back of the macaroni box. "Yo Theodore, do you want to eat now or later?"

His voice echoed back at me. "Don't call me Theodore!"

I laughed, setting down the pot and coming over to the doorway where I could see him and leaning against the frame. It didn't look like I'd be pulling him away from the television just yet. "My deepest apologies, Theo. I'm gonna go upstairs; I'll make dinner in a little while, okay?"

"Okay," he echoed, not moving his eyes off the screen. I rolled my eyes and headed up the staircase, kicking off my high heels as I reached the guest bedroom I was staying in. It was bright and stylishly decorated, with a lot of furniture and modern touches that I guessed had come almost entirely from Ikea, but the only clue that suggested it was my room was the fact that my suitcase was open at the end of the bed. I set up my iPod in some speakers on the bedside table, turning on some music before digging for my hairbrush and moving to the mirror.

Singing softly along with the music, I took out the clip at the back of my head, brushing out my dark wavy hair so it hung smoothly to my shoulders. I took off most of my jewelry as well, suddenly bothered by my bracelets and necklace clinking together now that I wasn't in a formal setting. I froze suddenly, thinking I'd heard a faint knock at the front door, but when no sound followed I turned to my suitcase and started to unpack my things into the dresser across from the bed. Ready to trade my dress in for some shorts and a sweatshirt, I began to take it off.

"Daphne!" Theo's voice suddenly echoed up the entrance way and the staircase. He wasn't in the living room anymore. "Daphne!"

"What is it?" I shouted back.

"Just come here!"

"Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered, rolling my eyes. All I wanted to do was change my clothes. I went out into the hallway, zipping the side of my dress back up as I came to the top of the stairs. Theo was standing by the front door – but to my surprise, he wasn't alone. A young man with light brown hair, about my age but still boyish looking, stood timidly just inside the doorway. He looked up at me, and I was suddenly mortified to think that I'd almost come out here with my dress half off.

"Hello," he said, smiling pleasantly up at me, "My name is Peter."


	2. What We Came For

"Hi," I said back uncertainly, starting to come down the stairs. I looked at my brother as I reached the bottom. "Theo?"

"Someone's here," he explained unnecessarily, oblivious to my tone of voice. He didn't seem to understand that he'd answered the door without my permission.

"I can see that," I told him evenly, before turning my gaze on our guest. I smiled politely at him, which was a pretty big feat - I had never been that great with strangers. "Is there something I can help you with?" I offered, trying to be gracious. Theo went back into the living room to sit in front of the TV again.

"I'm sorry, how rude of me," he apologized suddenly, "I'm staying with the Kingsleys next door. I believe I met some of your family earlier?"

Aunt Deb _had_ mentioned some boys next door. "Right, of course," I told him, "I'm Daphne, and that was my little brother Theo." I offered him my hand, and when he clasped it with a shy smile, I couldn't help but be taken aback by the white golfing gloves he was wearing. In fact, he was dressed almost _entirely_ in white, and quite neatly. It came off as a little anal retentive. I tried to shake the thought.

"Did you need something?" I asked.

"Yes, actually," Peter smiled, "Jessica—I mean, Mrs. Kingsley, sent me over to see if she could trouble you for some eggs? I'm afraid she ran out while she was making dinner, and she really needs some more."

I blinked, surprised. Back where I lived, none of my neighbors had ever so much as knocked on our door to say hi, much less to borrow something. I guess these wealthy neighborhoods had a different sort of dynamic going. "Of course," I said, trying not to come off as too shocked, "Um, come on in. How many eggs does she need?"

"Three, I think," Peter responded absently. He seemed to be dawdling in the hallway as I got the eggs from the refrigerator, studying the photos on the wall. "You and your brother don't seem to be in a lot of these pictures," he commented with interest.

I was kind of thrown by the remark – who notices something like that? – but I answered anyway, looking for something to put the eggs in. "Oh, uh, this is my aunt and uncle's place. We're just visiting this weekend."

"And where are your aunt and uncle?"

"They're—" I began, coming back out with the eggs in a plastic Tupperware bowl, when I cut off suddenly, stopping in my tracks. Peter was no longer the only person in the front hallway. Standing by the door was another boy around my age, oddly dressed almost entirely in white just like Peter was, right down to the gloves. He was taller than Peter, and thinner too – in fact, he was quite attractive, with neat blonde hair and eyes so blue I could see them from where I was standing. His expression was perfectly polite, but something about his eyes was making me uneasy. I didn't like the way they were looking at me, with a practiced carefulness, like they weren't to be revealing anything just yet. He smiled a little, and my heart began to pound.

"Um. Hello," I said, looking between the two of them uncertainly I was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable.

"Her name is Daphne, and the brother is Theo," Peter remarked to his blonde companion, ignoring me, "I was just asking Daphne where her aunt and uncle are. It appears that she and her brother may be here all by themselves."

Peter's friend looked politely intrigued. "Really, Daphne? Where _are_ your aunt and uncle?"

I was suddenly aware of the fact that I really, really wanted them to leave. "They'll be back soon," I lied quickly, holding out the bowl. "Look, here are your eggs – Mrs. Kingsley is probably wondering where you are."

"I think she'll understand," the blonde smiled, which unsettled me. I tried once more to give the eggs to Peter, but just as I thought he'd taken the bowl, he let it go just as quickly, letting it slip to the floor with a fumble of his gloved hands. The eggs cracked against each other and spilled on to the tile.

"Tubby!" the blonde scolded, as Peter and I both knelt to clean up the mess. "You can be so careless sometimes, you know that?" He stepped around us, looking into the living room at Theo, who no longer seemed to be preoccupied with the TV. His face watched us from over the back of the couch, looking about as nervous as I felt.

"I would really appreciate it if you refrained from commenting on my weight," Peter told him sourly.

The blonde ignored him and faced my brother, speaking no less politely than he had before. "Theo, would you mind helping your sister take care of this mess?"

"I've got it," I snapped, none too keen on either of them speaking to him. I piled the broken shells back into the bowl and stood, and Peter mirrored my movement.

The blonde was now in the doorway to the kitchen, picking up my phone, apparently admiring it. He looked back at me sharply, a hurt look on his face. "I'm – I'm sorry, have I done something to offend you?"

My heart was beating curiously fast as I noticed Theo coming to stand at my side. I had the weirdest urge to tell him to run, or hide, or _something_. "We don't have any more eggs. You should probably just go."

He looked at Peter helplessly, but his eyes didn't match his expression. He was still holding my phone. "Peter, did you say something rude to Daphne before I got here?"

"I don't believe so," Peter replied innocently.

"Look," I said, "You haven't done anything; I'd just really like you to go now." I paused, watching as the blonde turned my phone over in those gloved hands. I put down the bowl of broken eggs on the decorative cabinet beside me, watching him carefully. "Give me my phone back," I demanded slowly, unable to move my eyes from his. Sickening, heavy dread was beginning to pulse dully through my veins.

A smile spread honey-slow across his face, too charming, too content. He held the phone up, and lifting just one finger, let it slide from his grip and hit the hard tile floor with a sharp crack. I could see the shards from where I was standing – the screen was shattered.

"Hey!" Theo shouted, but I grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back to my side before he could rush forward and do something stupid. I might have shouted as well, had I not already been aware that something much more terrible than a couple of rude houseguests was happening.

I grabbed the metal baseball bat at my side and held it aloft, trying not to be as clumsy with fear as I felt. I turned so I could see them both, Peter and his blonde friend. My breathing was very shallow all of a sudden. I could feel Theo shaking beside me. "Get out," I hissed, "Both of you. Now."

The blonde frowned, moving towards us, and I held up the bat as if to use it. His voice had gained a certain edge to it, flavoring his ridiculous cordialness with a threat I was certain I didn't want to see followed through. "You aren't being very _welcoming_, Daphne. Peter?" His eyes flicked over to his companion. In response, Peter closed and locked the front door with a _click_ that I would never be able to stop hearing for the rest of my life whenever I saw a door shut.

The blonde took another step towards me and I swung without hesitation, only to hit his open palms as he yanked the bat out of my hands so roughly that I cried out. He swung and made solid contact with my stomach, knocking the wind of me so that I fell to the floor with only a gasping wheeze.

I heard Theo scream as Peter grabbed him from behind, kicking and beating uselessly against the older boy as he was lifted off the ground. I arched my back and tried to get up, but the blonde swung savagely again, striking me so that I crumpled flat, still unable to scream properly. He slid his shoe under me and rolled me over on my back so that I lay looking up at him. I wasn't hurt badly, but my chest was heaving as I struggled to get my breath back – I had been effectively subdued. He crouched down beside me, holding the bat at his side to keep his balance. He brushed my bangs aside and smiled attractively at me as I tried to swat his hand away.

"Ah ah ah," he shook his head disapprovingly, "I don't think you and I got off to a very good start. Let's try again," he sat me up and stuck his hand out genially. "I'm Paul."


	3. Hands Off

For a moment, all I could do was stare at him. Theo had stopped struggling, and he was crying now. I looked from Paul's smiling face to my little brother, hot tears leaking down his face in Peter's grip. "Please," I said, whispering for some reason beyond me, "Please put him down."

"Oh, of course," Paul said, smiling sheepishly as if he'd almost forgotten his wallet. "Isn't it easier when we're all polite?" He stood then, glancing at Peter, who set Theo down at once. He stumbled to my side, cold with fear.

"Theo, help your sister up, will you?" Paul asked, resting the bat casually on his shoulder as he strolled into the next room. "I think we'd all be a little more comfortable in the living room."

Theo complied with clammy, shaking hands and pulled me up, locking his arms around me in a desperate hug the moment I got to my feet. I winced and took hold of either side of his face, looking him over to make sure he hadn't been hurt. I was going to be developing some nasty bruises in no time at all. I looked longingly at my destroyed phone, wondering if I might be able to get what was left of the screen working if I had the time to try. I felt a chill, realizing that Uncle Nick had told me they didn't come down here often enough to justify paying for a landline phone.

"Come on, let's not waste any time," Peter scolded lightly, putting a hand on my shoulder as he shuffled us into the living room. I shrugged it off viciously, refusing to let go of Theo as Paul gestured for us to sit on the couch across from him. He'd turned off the TV and made himself comfortable on the loveseat, sitting with his knees apart and the baseball bat across his lap. He looked quite at home, smiling contentedly like a cat that had just cornered his prey…and I didn't want to know how accurate that description might be.

"Theo seems a little anxious," Paul said to me, frowning in fake concern, "Do you think you could calm him down? He's not going to fare very well in that state."

I had already analyzed the situation – both boys were significantly taller than me, and as Paul had already demonstrated, much stronger as well. With Peter blocking the doorway and Paul wielding the bat, there was no way either of us could get out of the room with any degree of success. "Take anything you want," I told him frigidly, meeting his eyes with a cold, determined stare, "Please. I have money."

"I don't think you heard me correctly," he responded, "I asked you very nicely to calm your brother down. I really don't want to have to ask you again." His eyes didn't leave me, sending a shiver of something down my spine. His voice was smooth and attractive, a stark contrast to the reality of the whole thing. "Now, I want to you to turn to your brother and tell him that he needs to pay attention. Say, 'Theo, I want you to give Paul your full attention.'"

Gritting my teeth, I lifted Theo's face from my shoulder. "Theo," I repeated, trying my best to be soothing considering the amount of hatred rolling off of me, "I want you…to give Paul…your full attention."

I wiped the wetness from his cheek with my thumb as he followed my directions and faced Paul. I looked back at Peter playing sentinel by the exit; he was watching us with a voyeuristic grin, which grew even wider when he caught me looking at him. His eyes seemed to slip from my face to below my jaw line, and I looked sharply back at Paul. The sight there wasn't much better.

"Very good_,_ Daphne," he smiled, toasting me with the bat, "You know, I think you're going to be good at this."

I took the bait. "Good at _what_?" I asked bitterly.

"We're gonna play a couple of games tonight," he told me. "You see, the two of _us_ want to make a bet with the two of _you_." He looked over our heads at Peter. "What time would you say it is, Peter?"

"It's about…6:09, Paul," came the response from the doorway.

"Right," Paul said, looking eagerly back at us, "Okay, _you're_ going to bet that at six o' clock tomorrow morning the two of you will still be alive, and _we_ bet that you'll be dead. Sound fair?"

Until that moment, I'd always thought that the expression about 'blood running cold' was an exaggeration. I went rigid, and I felt Theo turning sharply to look at me, wide-eyed and pale. I took once glance at his face and knew right then and there that the most important thing I could ever do in my life would be to make sure neither of these freaks laid a hand on him.

Mustering up the most courage I could manage, I spoke back to him. "We don't want to play."

"Well, that certainly won't do," Paul replied, looking to his friend for help. "Peter, I don't think they're going to bet."

Peter sounded taken aback. "But they have to bet!"

Paul turned back to us. "I'm afraid you're going to have to bet," he said, studying my face, "Unless, of course, you need some motivation first," he looked back at his friend, "Peter, do you think Daphne's uncle is the hunting type? How about fishing? At the very least there's got to be some expensive knives in the kitchen – you know, the nice kind they have infomercials for."

"I'll go check," Peter replied helpfully, turning to go.

"No!" I shrieked, leaping out of my seat to stop him before I could control myself. I whirled desperately on Paul, practically falling to my knees in front of him. Theo looked too scared to move, or even cry. "We'll play," I backpedaled immediately, breathless with fear.

That grin cracked Paul's face again. "Excellent. The first game we're going to play is called…" his eyes searched around the room, dragging out the word as he thought, "…Hands Off."

I didn't like the little excited breath I heard from Peter behind me, or the way Paul's eyes lingered on me, making my face redden with embarrassment in addition to the fear.

"You don't have to look so worried, it's easy to play," he assured me, beckoning me over, "Come here, I'll show you. Peter?"

Peter crossed the room and accepted the bat from his friend, sinking down on the couch with us. Theo's hand tightened around mine at the prospect of me leaving his side. I squeezed back but stood, knowing it would only be worse to disobey. I froze in front of Paul distastefully, realizing his outstretched palm indicated he meant for me to take a hold of it. I drew a breath with my jaw clenched and placed my hand in his. He closed it around mine – I never realized how small my hand was until I saw it compared to his – and smiled, before yanking me down on to his lap. Theo jerked, as if he had just resisted shouting, but I simply stiffened in the intimate position. I wanted to look away from Paul, but I couldn't. I was slightly above him, our faces inches apart. I could feel his breath on my neck.

I believe it was the way he was looking at me, that split-second flash of desire in his eyes that I didn't fail to miss, that first planted the idea in my head.

Paul regained himself instantly, looking at my brother and Peter on the couch as if he didn't have a girl sitting on top of him. "Since our friend Theo is so _quiet_, I thought we might see what compels him to say something," he squeezed my waist for emphasis, giving me a very good idea of how he planned to achieve that, "But you never know what might happen when you speak up."

"Theo," I spoke very calmly, surprising myself again, "Close your eyes."

"That sounds a little like cheating," Peter commented, twirling the bat lazily.

Paul regarded me again. "It does, doesn't it? Good try though, Daphne. Bravo," he gave me a playful shake, "I told you you'd be good at this!"

He adjusted me on his lap, and I tried to ignore Peter as he sat back on the couch contentedly, bat between his knees, watching me.

He swept my hair away from my neck, and I found myself closing my eyes. I was surprised to find I wasn't shaking. I tried to picture my parents, smiling and waving to us in the airport before they boarded their plane to California, and I couldn't imagine not seeing them again. I thought about Uncle Nick and Aunt Deb at their party across the lake – God, why hadn't we just stayed? When would they be back?

Paul moved his fingers down my throat to the curve of my neck. "Lower," he narrated, as if he were playing a game of hot and cold, "lower…lower…," he slipped down my arm, then up my thin sleeve to my shoulder, "…higher…," I thought of the college acceptance letter taped to my refrigerator, and he moved back down my arm, "…lower…," I realized I hadn't spoken to my best friend since I left, and he palmed my waist, creeping up to my ribs, "…higher…," my mother again, kissing me goodbye just like Aunt Deb had, "…higher…," he moved over my chest, not bothering with modesty, and a hot tear slipped down my face despite the determined set of my jaw, "…higher…," one hand fit with disturbing ease around the front of my neck, the other traveling lower, lower, until it was firm and unwelcome on my thigh, toying with the hem of my skirt.

This fucking dress.

I opened my eyes, praying for the first time in years that my brother could endure my humiliation…but watching Theo's face screwed up with the urge not to cry or protest, I knew he wouldn't be able to. He was seconds from breaking, so I had to break first. Eyes locked on the heavy, metal end of the bat, I stopped Paul's hand where it was. "Get your _fucking_ hands off of me."

"Whoa! We have a winner!" Paul turned my head with the hand still on my neck and abruptly forced his mouth on to mine – a perversion of a kiss, lasting too long even in its briefness, meant to disgust me or make me cry – before shoving me forwards off of his lap and on to the coffee table.

As I landed roughly on my knees, an idea came to full formation in my head.

I looked back up at Paul, totally blind to anything else in that split second. It didn't take a lot of effort to discern the reason he'd had his hands all over as a part of his sick game. I could recognize that greedy gleam of lust, even in the eyes someone who planned to end my life. It was disgusting. It was beyond offensive.

It was going to save my life.

I'd the feeling that if he was going to rape me, he'd have dragged me off and done it already. No, someone like Paul had more control than that. He indulged himself, but he stuck to his plan. He was here on business. My stomach turned as I realized the full extent of what I was going to have to do – if I could play on that underlying want, I might be able to distract him and separate him from Peter, who, although dangerous, didn't seem to be able to do much without Paul leading him. If I could keep him long enough, it might even be enough time for Theo to try and escape.

"Give Daphne her prize," Paul commanded cheerfully, hauling me to my feet, and I tried to take the blow without giving them the satisfaction of a scream. With a goal to focus on, it was a little easier.

I had a plan.


	4. Just Dropping By

They moved us into the kitchen next, and I summoned every ounce of acting skill I was capable of in order to hide my panic. Aunt Deb and Uncle Nick liked to have the best of everything, and that philosophy applied even to their kitchen utensils – a big, expensive knife block sat beside sink, various slots housing the kind of serrated edges that they showed slicing and dicing and cutting through drywall on television. I prayed that it would go unnoticed.

"Get us something to drink, Daphne, won't you?" Paul asked of me, a genial tone to his voice that echoed like a lie as I felt the bruises forming along my ribs and across my back. He handed me off to Peter and sat down at the kitchen table across from Theo, who still hadn't spoken a word aside from the nonsense sputtered between sobs.

Peter prodded me towards the refrigerator with the end of the bat, pulling me away from Paul and Theo's interaction at the table. "Water will be fine, thank you," he requested politely, smiling that same smile that had gotten me to let him inside, "We want to stay healthy, after all."

I pulled a few glasses out of the cabinet, stiff with the effort it took not to whirl around and slap the pleased look off of his face. I could hear Paul begin to speak.

"Now, Theo," he began, folding his hands in front of him on the table, "Tell me something. Do you think your sister is pretty?"

"Lovely," Peter answered with a satisfied sort of tone, tilting his head as he watched me move to get the water. He trailed the bat up the back of my bare leg and I kicked it away with a cold rush of fear, wishing that some kind of wall would spring up between us. Paul, I was sure, had passed up his moment if he had planned to take advantage of me…but I was still very much in Peter's danger zone.

Paul's head snapped over to us, the look on his face suddenly as terrifying and dark as his demeanor. "You will keep your _fucking_ hands to yourself, Tubby," he snarled, and his partner froze in shock, like a child who'd never been punished before. It certainly was a bold command coming from someone who'd practically had his hand up my dress only minutes before. He stared back at Paul a moment before he could even defend himself, eyes flicking over to me, who he'd apparently thought had been fair game.

"But Jerry—"

Paul regained his cool almost instantaneously, but the dangerous glimmer was still present in his eyes. "Do as I say, Tom, not as I do," he told him evenly, before calmly turning back to Theo, "Now, as I was saying…do you think your sister is pretty? And I'd really suggest that you answer – it's very rude to keep ignoring me like this."

Theo lifted his head up slowly to look Paul in the face, his eyes red rimmed. He looked very young in that moment. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Yes."

Paul smiled indulgently and bent his head towards him, as if they were sharing a secret. "I think so, too." Not moving from his position, his eyes flicked over to look at me as he went on. "She has nice bone structure…big eyes…pale skin…" he trailed off, looking back at Theo and leaning over the table towards him.

"If you don't start playing," he whispered conspiratorially, "there won't even be enough left of that pretty little face to identify her."

Several things happened right then. Theo jerked and stumbled out of his chair with a yell, probably in legitimate reaction, and Paul moved right after him, assuming it was an abrupt escape attempt. I cried out and ran forward only to be caught around the waist by Peter, who was shouting for all our attention over the noise, gesturing wildly at the kitchen window with the baseball bat. After several more moments of chaos, Paul finally grabbed Theo around the shoulders and screeched for us all to shut up.

"Say again, Pete?" he asked once he was sure he was in control again, albeit a little breathlessly.

"Visitors," Peter answered, indicating the window once more. My heart began firing at full speed again as we all turned to look outside – the back of the house faced the narrowest part of the lake, across which a little bridge had been built, reaching over to a stretch of sand that served as the lake's beach. I had planned to go out there the next afternoon and do some tanning, I recalled vaguely. It felt like a thought from a different universe. Sure enough, crossing that bridge were a few people I recognized as my aunt and uncle's acquaintances on bicycles, apparently coming to stop by after a ride across the sand.

My grip on Peter's arm tightened exponentially with nervous excitement – these acquaintances were two grown women and a man, all of whom looked big enough to overpower these two punks holding us, however psychotic they may be – if I dashed out the screen door screaming they'd be close enough to help, one of them could call the police…

Struck with inspiration, I broke away from Peter and seized one of the knives from behind us, knocking over the block of them in my haste. I made it as far as the dishwasher before Peter grabbed me again, struggling as I swung at him with the blade, slicing the material of his shirt but apparently missing my actual target. I struck him across the face and delivered a solid blow to his knee, and was granted his fierce grunt of pain, but the trajectory of his fall knocked me to the ground, where he began to crawl over me. I lashed out again, fully prepared to stab him this time, but to my horror I felt myself pinned with his knees on either side of me as he began prying the knife from my grip. I cried out with a horrible sound as he tossed it handle-first to Paul, who picked it up off the kitchen table and held it far too close to my brother's throat for my liking. My heart froze instantly, and my body followed suit.

"Make one more sound," Paul assured me, "and I'm afraid the game will end a little earlier than scheduled."

I stared up at him from where Peter was still holding me to the floor, shaking with suppressed rage and frustration and panic. To his credit, Theo had stopped crying; he simply looked drawn and pale as he held on desperately to the arm around his shoulders, stretching stiffly away from the knife. I tried to remember my plan again to try and regain what little control I had over the situation – if seeking help was hopeless, I needed to get on Paul's good side.

"Very, _very_ good," Paul praised me with a grin when I was able to remain silent, "Okay, Peter, trade with me – we've got to go greet our guests." He spoke like he was hosting a party. Peter hoisted us up from the floor and abruptly swapped me for my little brother, shoving me into Paul's arms, which wrapped around me easily and pressed me to him. He leaned down slightly to speak into my ear, turning us to the window and showing me the adults leaning their bikes against the edge of the bridge, chatting, blissfully unaware.

"We're going to go out and make sure they leave, Daphne. Are you alright with that?" he asked, squeezing my waist a little. His breath was hot on my skin, lips brushing my ear as he spoke. I shivered. It wasn't a request. I took a large breath before I spoke, doing my best to keep my voice neutral. There was still a little shake in it.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

"Oh, it'll come to you," he assured me casually, speaking into my neck now, "Just be natural." I realized abruptly why he wasn't forcing me against the window with a knife to my neck – the people outside were looking up at the house, trying to gauge whether my aunt and uncle were home or not.

With that, he loosed me from his hold and opened the kitchen door, sweeping his arm gallantly outside. "After you," he smiled, and I tried not to look at him as we started down the wide stretch of grass between us and our visitors. My fear for my brother's safety had sent me into a strange sort of survival mode, allowing me to think and analyze quickly instead of clouding my head with panic. I squinted against the quickly setting sun, combing my brain for the bits and pieces of a story that would sound believable enough to send away my aunt's friends - it was beyond surreal to see them smiling up at us, totally oblivious to the danger I was in even as I walked towards them with a forced smile on my face.

I didn't have to do this, I realized. I could bolt towards them as my muscles were screaming at me to do, beg for them to call the police. Even if Paul grabbed me, they would know something was wrong. They would help me without a thought, save me from the deceptively handsome boy smiling demurely at them beside me. I could do it right now. I could end it. I could save myself.

But my brother would die.

Committing even more fiercely to the story I'd concocted barely five seconds ago, I began speaking before Paul had the chance to start.

"Hi," I greeted them, trying to appear sheepish, like a girl trying not to act like she'd been caught in something. I wondered why I wasn't more nervous – perhaps lying to strangers was easier for me than meeting them.

One of the women, a friendly-looking blonde who was slightly overweight, smiled back at me and responded with a tinge of southern twang in her voice. "Well hey, honey. You must be Daphne?"

"That's me," I told her, looking back at the three of them. I hoped my smile didn't look as tight as it felt.

"I'm Arlene. Your aunt told us y'all were visiting," she smiled, looking over Paul and clearly registering that he was _not_ my sibling. Her eyes took in his lean figure and his handsome face, and her smile turned indulgent, "But she didn't mention any other visitors."

"Paul," he smiled shyly, charming them in an instant, and stuck his hand out for them to shake as I placed my hand gently on his other elbow. It was all for show; I knew it was a touch they wouldn't miss. The strange, sort of horrifying part was just how very easily the intimate touch came to me – I might have linked my arm through his and pressed up to his side, had I not already been worried that he would punish me for it once we were out of sight. He'd stiffened in surprise the moment I'd laid a hand on him, just enough for me to feel it in the muscle beneath my fingers.

"He's just, um, dropping by tonight," I lied pretty blatantly, and they certainly picked up on it.

The man smiled knowingly at us. "Your aunt and uncle wouldn't happen to be home, would they?"

My face was pale, but I half smiled, trying to look as guilty as possible. "They're at the Evans's anniversary party, actually. Across the lake."

The three of them shared a smile, undoubtedly reminiscing about their own high school days. The second woman, a brunette who shared only a shadow of her friend's accent, spoke next. "Too bad for us, then. Tell them we dropped by, will you?" she asked, winking at Paul, "We'll let you pick the details."

"I'll do that," I assured them, starting to feel shaky against my better judgment as I realized I'd actually convinced them to leave. A whole new set of tremors shook me inside as Paul laced his fingers through mine without any warning, holding my hand at his side, causing my aunt's friends to share another look as they got back on their bikes. His skin was hot against mine.

"We'll be good," he promised, his voice innocent and his smile anything but, getting another laugh out of them as they began to ride away. My heart beat very slowly as I watched them pedal away from us over the bridge. Paul was still clutching my hand. Once they had ridden out of earshot, he tightened his hold to a slight squeeze.

"How very unusual," he remarked quietly, not turning his head to look at me as he spoke. I hesitated, unable to tell if there was danger in that soft tone or not.

"What?" I asked, chancing a response.

He tilted his head in my direction, still not quite looking at me. "I'm usually a cousin, or a neighbor's son, or a family friend," he replied, eyes finally reaching me and looking me up and down, "You're the first to imply that I was fucking you."

My face ignited almost instantly. "I didn't say that!" I hissed insistently, somehow horrified by his language, though I usually swore like a sailor myself. "I – I just – you said to think of something –"

"And you had them believe you'd invited your boyfriend over," he was smiling now, which didn't relieve me one bit, "You're a wonderful actress. They thought they'd interrupted us right in the middle of it."

I tried to yank my hand from his, but he tightened his hold and abruptly brought it up in front of his face, not quite to his mouth, but close. His expression was wolfish, hosting a grin that looked ready to devour me. "You were very convincing, Daphne," he murmured, "Thank you."

And with eyes never leaving mine, gauging my every little reaction, he brought my hand to his lips and gave it a long, slow kiss.

Squirming, but with my plan still in my mind, I let him do it. Keeping my face straight was not as difficult as keeping my body from reacting as it usually did to this sort of contact. The heat worming its way around inside me, I was mortified to realize, was not an entirely unpleasant sensation.

His eyes changed as he lowered my hand from his mouth, regaining a glimmer of danger in them that, instead of frightening me, elicited a horrifyingly greedy feeling deep inside me. His look, I thought, was almost accusatory.

"I wish you had been home alone," he confided darkly, letting go of my hand and giving me a hard push back towards the house.

So did I.


	5. Keep Me Safe

[[ Hi! I'm really sorry I stopped updating for so long; busyness paired with writer's block is a lethal combination. I'd just like to thank everyone who's been reviewing, especially considering how inactive this story has been! I love the feedback and just the fact that you guys even take the time to read and enjoy this. I know this'll seem a bit short, but I just wanted to get something up to let everyone know I'm writing again. I can't believe I left this for so long, Peter and Paul are so much fun! :) ]]

The confusion burning in my stomach was muted by an intense jolt of fear the moment we stepped back inside.

Theo was now restrained, duct taped to the kitchen chair he was sitting in with his hands bound behind his back, sporting an angry red welt across his face that looked like it'd be developing into a black eye in no time at all. I would have run to him like my legs were screaming to do had Peter not been sitting in the chair beside him, examining the knife in his hands casually. His eyes flicked up to Paul as he locked the door behind us.

"You were _taking_ such an awfully long time," he said by way of explanation, "My arms were tired."

Paul rolled his eyes dramatically, nudging me forwards towards the table. "I really tire of your laziness sometimes, Tubby. It's such bad form."

The look in Peter's eyes darkened slightly. "The kiss was a bit much," he commented, his tone light on the surface, but didn't ring true for their acidic teasing. He wasn't pleased. "They weren't even looking."

Paul seemed to ignore the jibe. Theo's wild eyes found mine, looking for a silent explanation, and my face colored with shame for my earlier thoughts. I had to look away from my brother as Paul pulled out a chair for me. Always mocking us with manners. He sank into one beside me and pulled it in close, the four of us gathered around the table like some perversion of a family dinner. He folded his hands in front of him and smiled winningly at us all.

"I know the two of you are feeling a little restless," he began eagerly, like a sitcom dad about to announce a road trip, "so I've been thinking…why not play something that's fun for everyone?"

My mind, busy balancing the lingering feel of hands squeezing and blood freezing and lips on skin, took a moment to process this. I found it hard to tear my eyes away from Peter, who was now almost openly glowering at me across the table like a sullen, resentful child. I wasn't sure if I preferred it to the leering.

"Scrabble?" I deadpanned before I could catch myself. The episode outside had made me too bold. To my surprise, Paul only laughed, shooting me a delighted grin.

"She is _funny_," he remarked to Peter, the laugh still in his voice, before his eyes slid over to Theo tied up in his chair. "You should take some cues from your sister, buddy; she's being an excellent sport. You know I didn't even have to feed her any lines out there?" Paul reached over and gave my shoulder a genial clap as he mentioned me. I sat stock-still, afraid to react to his touch, especially in front of Theo or Peter. The latter had dialed back the annoyance on his face at Paul's praise, but it remained obvious and dark in his eyes.

"Please untie him," I asked of them, keeping my voice mostly expressionless. It chilled me to try and think about how often Peter and Paul did things like this, to wonder how many other homes they'd slithered their way into, but something told me the panicky-desperate act was a good way to bore them fast. My survival instinct was screaming for me to keep their interest for as long as possible.

"Nice manners, too," Paul added, delighted. "Of course, Daphne. How else would he be able to play? Peter, let our friend Theo out of that chair."

I could see the protest at being called _friend_ on my brother's lips, but luckily his eyes were locked on my face and he seemed to pick up the intense, unmoving warning there. He said nothing and tried not to flinch as Peter, who had brightened the instant Paul had addressed him, cut him free of his tight bindings and peeled them away.

In the meantime, Paul stood, moving to the head of the table so he could address the both of us. He leaned over and planted both his hands on the wood surface. "We're going to try something here – Peter?" He extended his hand, and Peter passed the knife as he came to stand beside me, picking up the bat and shouldering it casually.

Paul straightened up, examining the knife. "Daphne, put your hands on the table."

My stomach felt bottomless. I hesitantly pressed my palms flat to the wood. It'd only be worse if he had to ask twice.

"This is new," Peter remarked, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Paul ran a thumb down the blade appreciatively. "Spread your fingers," he instructed, and a dreadful look of realization appeared on Theo's face that didn't escape notice. "I thought you might know this one, smart kid like you." Paul grinned and flipped the knife around, offering the handle to him. "You go first."

I saw sweat beading on his forehead. He was trying his best to follow my lead. No more crying. Don't give them what they want. "What if I don't?" he dared to ask, voice faltering.

Peter lifted the bat, giving it a slow-motion swing that kissed my left temple coldly. He held it there, and I exhaled shakily into my lap. "Home run," he smiled, and settled it back on his shoulder.

Theo took the knife instantly. It looked too large in his fist, like a prop for the stage. He looked at me desperately, the thing quivering in his hand. I knew he wouldn't make a move with it to defend himself so long as Peter was poised to bludgeon me to death, not even if I was somehow able to tell him to leave me and run.

Taking a breath, I lifted my head and looked directly into Paul's eyes, those bright blue irises that had first warned me of his cruel intentions. For the moment he looked back, we had an understanding. Silently, I was promising him anything. Terrible things. Anything he wanted to do to me. And I knew he would take that offer if I made it, probably under the false premise of letting us go. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that.

So long as it kept his attention on me and away from my brother, I didn't care. I'd play dumb, let him believe I really thought he'd let me live. He could slit my throat when he was done with me and it would be worth it as long as it gave Theo enough time to get away. Of this I was positive: he was a fast runner and a smart kid, and if he could get away from Peter while Paul was focused on me, he'd be able to get to safety.

When I finally pulled my eyes off Paul, I knew he'd seen my offer. And I knew, from his behavior outside, that he was hooked. I looked back to my brother, the knife still shaking in his hand.

"Go ahead," I whispered to him, "It's okay."

And I tried not to flinch.


	6. On Your Mark

Dr. Dillon interrupts me for the first time. His eyes are fixed on my bandaged fingers, the white gauze from the hospital that I have been fiddling with as I speak.

"Your brother did that to you?" he asks, and it seems like he is reevaluating all of my other visible damage, wondering which sick game caused each cut and bruise. My hand instantly goes to my face, ghosting over a thin, stinging line across my cheekbone, trying to protect it from his scrutiny.

"His hand was shaking," I explain, and I realize I am smiling tightly, the tense muscles pulling the sides of my mouth into a mirthless grin as if a part of me finds it funny. There's a nervous laugh in my voice and I know it makes me sound crazy but I can't shake it. "He got me once and started crying and his aim…his aim…well, yeah."

I inhale abruptly and hold my breath for a second. Honestly, I don't feel tears coming anymore. I don't feel anything besides my sore muscles shaking and the coldness of my hands. I want to go home and sit in the shower until the water shuts off. That's it.

The good doctor is leaning forward now, enthralled and appalled, nearly forgetting his professional air. "What happened next?"

"They let me bleed," I tell him, tone unchanged. "Luckily he couldn't stab very hard. No…serious damage." I picture the knife again, my red hands, and I look up. Dr. Dillon says something else – I see his mouth move – but I don't hear it. My eyes find the curve of his neck and the pulse beating under his skin, that river system of blood moving there. I flash on the feel of a body pressed around mine, arms and eyes puppeteering me to reach out…

I shake myself, blinking, meeting Dillon's concerned eyes. "What?"

"After that," he repeats, looking at me over his glasses, "What happened?"

000

The sun had set by now, the sky colored that dark jewel blue that comes just before the blackness.

Apparently sated by my punishment, Peter had taken a seat beside me, slinging a sarcastic comforting arm around my shoulders as I clutched my screaming fingers to my chest. I was trying to hide the terror that was probably obvious on my face from Theo as I realized something awful: this particular game had been a tactical maneuver. Weakening my hands had taken away our last hope of winning this thing with any kind of surprise brute force on my part – I could hardly bear to flex my fingers, and my blood loss, though non-life threatening, would certainly begin to impair me if it continued. I had become even less of a physical threat than I already was, five-foot-three and hardly capable of a pushup.

It was sick. Sick, and fucking brilliant.

"What's next on the agenda?" Peter asked, sounding content. With his free hand I could feel him fingering individual strands of my hair at the top of my head, as if he were looking for one in particular. He plucked one out abruptly and his hand paused coldly in its actions when I didn't flinch.

"Hide and seek," Paul announced, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

My head shot up. Even with hot tears still pooling in my eyes and bloody hands, I recognized my one chance to put this thing into action. Paul's eyes were on me instantly, and I realized he'd been watching me. I felt my insides twist.

My gaze went to Theo, who was glaring openly and tearfully at Peter's arm around the back of my chair. He didn't understand what I could feel now – in terms of taking advantage of me, Peter was barely a threat. I didn't know what his deal was, but his earlier comments had been him following Paul's lead; threaten the girl, scare the brother. It was only after Paul snapped at him that Peter realized his partner had intentions that deviated from the usual. In fact, the only thing I felt from Peter's position, that subtly menacing arm around me, was jealousy.

And I couldn't be sure if that would work for me or against me.

"At…at least let her get a bandage," Theo choked out, wiping his eyes furiously. He hated to be weak in front of them. He was trying so hard to be a man.

"Oh, don't tell me you're crying again, buddy," Paul smiled and crouched down in front of him, knife held casually at his side, voice dripping with amusement. "Come on, now. You shoulda thought of that before you went and slice up her hands like a Thanksgiving turkey."

He grinned, waiting for Theo's face to crumple, and instead was surprised by the fist that struck him right in the eye.

Paul reeled back from the shock of it – how much damage could you expect a skinny ten year old to do? – before regaining himself, a flash of real fury blazing in the eye he wasn't clutching. I shouted wordlessly in the same instant that Paul lashed out with the knife, scrambling to my feet as Theo screamed and recoiled in his chair. His hands were on his left cheek, trying to staunch the blood that had appeared there as Paul seized him roughly by the shirt. He hauled Theo out of his chair and threw him face down on to the stone tile floor before rolling him over on to his back with a kick, just as he had done to me. I threw myself over him despite the searing pain that the movement caused me, but Peter was there in a flash to pull me back, arms locking around me like steel bands as I watched Paul go for the bat, raise it over his shoulder…he'd do damage this time, I could feel it…

"Don't, Paul!" I shrieked as real panic overtook me, shocking myself even as the words echoed back to me. Since when were we on a first name basis?

And, incredibly, he froze. For a moment he just stood there. Theo lay on the ground beneath him with his face and eyes covered, chest heaving. Then his head turned sharply to look at us – at _me_ – with wild, almost unsettled eyes.

I wasn't the only one who was shocked – Peter nearly dropped me, his grip abruptly slackening so that he had to fight to regain his hold as I tried to struggle away from him.

"_Jerry_," Peter practically growled between gritted teeth. I could feel the rumble of speech in his chest. He sounded more betrayed than angry.

"It's fine, Tom," Paul answered, sounding a bit breathless, "it's fine." He lowered the bat to his side and ran a hand through his hair, which had fallen into disarray in the commotion. He seemed to be trying to get a hold of himself, but his cool wasn't coming back as easily as it had before. "We've, ah, got too much time left on the clock to be down to just one player."

Peter let me slide to floor – the bleeding hadn't stopped yet and my knees were feeling weak – and gave me a quick once-over. Annoyance was plain on his face. He turned that look full-force on to Paul, and I couldn't help but recognize it as a look I'd seen my mother give my father a hundred times before.

"A word, please?" he asked his partner, jerking his head towards the doorway into the hall, and it wasn't really a request. He grabbed the duct tape and bent down, winding it around my ankles once or twice for a quick restraint. It would have been too weak of a bind if I'd had my full strength, but my hands were out of commission and he'd left me no room to kick myself free easily enough to avoid notice. Peter stepped over me and strode purposefully to the doorway, and Paul allowed himself to be led by the elbow, humoring him with compliance.

I winced as I dragged myself over to Theo, smearing blood on the expensive tile floor. He'd rolled over on his side defensively, chest rising and falling rapidly. I could see the blood on his face, covered with his fingers. The cut wasn't deep. I bent my head over him, keeping one watchful eye on our two captors before whispering so quietly that my voice was hardly more than a breath on his cheek.

"Listen to me. I'm going to separate them for as long as I can. When I do that, you get out of this house."

I paused and pretending to be checking his wound, though it was hardly necessary – Peter and Paul were absorbed in their quiet disagreement, throwing us only the occasional glance. I caught the odd murmur from Peter (…_about your focus…the girl is…thought we agreed…was YOUR idea…not jealous…_), and the odd response from Paul (…_being ridiculous…your fucking business…to do with her…always like this…why I put up with it…_). Peter was gesturing emphatically, Paul rolling his eyes. I resumed whispering.

"I mean it. Once I get Paul to follow me, you run. They'll have gotten the people next door; get out of the neighborhood. Go through backyards. Town is closer than the party; find a lot of people and attract attention. Only stop at a house if you're positive someone is there. Call the police. 500 Woodley Avenue. I know you can do it."

The one grey eye I could see between his fingers looked up at me. "I'm not gonna leave you here," he whispered back.

"Yes you will. I can't run like you can. I'll buy us both time this way."

"He'll hurt you."

"I have a plan. Don't worry about me."

He blinked once. The look in his eye was one I hoped I'd never have to be the cause of ever again.

"Will you do it?" I asked. After a moment he nodded, almost imperceptibly. As much as I wanted to, I knew saying I loved him would only scare him. It sounded too final. "We're going to get out of this," I promised him, and then sat back as I heard the argument beginning to wrap up.

"…you know me, Tubby, come on," Paul was saying, finishing his sentiment. He'd taken Peter's face between his hands, the reassuring gesture at odds with his condescending smile.

"Don't," Peter grumbled, but lacked conviction enough to even pull away. Paul seemed to have demolished him in a second – he looked like he was about to break down, and yet still seemed content to stand there and take it as long as Paul has his hands on him. I wondered if I could even begin to understand the complexities of their relationship.

Or if I would want to.

"Right," Paul said loudly, pulling his hands back and turning towards us, "Where were we? Ah, yes." He covered the small distance between us casually, stepping over Theo to tower over me. His eyes were trained on my bound ankles.

"Look at this. So barbaric," he murmured apologetically. He knelt down in front of me, putting one gloved hand on my leg. My heart jumped. "You'll have to forgive Peter; he can never get a girl to keep still on his own. And he can stop that fucking sniveling any time now," he added with a glance at his partner, voice raised slightly in annoyance.

I couldn't resist looking myself, and to my surprise, Peter was in fact glowering at us with miserable, red-rimmed eyes. He obediently swiped at his cheeks and crossed his arms tightly, staring down at Theo, who'd sat up still clutching his cheek. Peter reached down and yanked him to his feet, resting a hand on his trembling shoulder.

"I always believe in conducting myself with a little class," Paul continued, sliding the hand he had on me down to the tape, "A simple _please_ and _thank_ _you_ really do work wonders." With that he ripped through the tape so abruptly that I flinched, gasping with pain as I accidentally flexed my fingers. He didn't take his hand off me, blue eyes locked on mine expectantly. And then it occurred to me.

"Thank you," I replied darkly, "So. Much." And his lips split into a jack-o-lantern grin.

"You're very welcome," he assured me, "Now, I believe the request was for a bandage? Theo? You wanted a bandage for your sister?"

Theo nodded stiffly, eyes cast low. "Please," he added, catching on.

"Well, since you were so polite," Paul conceded. He sat back on his knees, hands on his thighs as he squinted around this kitchen for a moment in thought. He smirked suddenly, reaching out for the knife he'd dropped in rage and grabbing at the bottom of my dress, the form-fitting hemline that ended a few inches above my knees. Theo and I cried both out in shock as he stuck the blade into the seam and slashed a slit up the side of the skirt, casting aside the knife as quickly as he'd picked it up. He positively lunged at me and, seizing the flap he'd torn, ripped the fabric from the bottom of my dress with a violent glee that sent my heart thundering away in my chest amidst the horror that was paralyzing me.

Paul came away with a fairly wide strip of fabric, having shredded the bottom of my dress from a decent length to barely mid-thigh. Though it was still wearable, I felt horribly exposed all of a sudden. He'd a conveyed a message that I didn't need reminding of: he could do as he pleased with me. He had the power.

I had to take it from him.

"Leave her alone already, freak!" Theo shouted. It didn't take a genius to see that Paul was focusing more and more of his cruel attention on me. "Just – leave her alone!"

"How noble of you," Paul commented without much interest, ripping the long strip of cloth in half, "Of course, I wouldn't even have to be doing this if it weren't for your terrible aim."

"You really needn't worry," Peter piped up calmly, watching as Paul motioned for me to hold out my injured hands, "Paul knows all about first aid. We were Boy Scouts."

"Fitting," I hissed through gritted teeth, my jaw clenching as Paul straightened out my hands. I'd rather have struggled with the cloth myself, but I wasn't exactly in a position to reject him. He folded and stretched the fabric around my fingers, once, twice, and knotted tightly to hold them together, repeating the process on my other hand. It wasn't much, but it did keep me from moving them and causing myself more pain.

"Thank you," I murmured before he could prompt me again, not really caring for another manners lesson. Smiling, he patted my bandaged hand firmly and I jerked it back from him, my eyes watering briefly with pain. He hauled me to my feet before I could resist him, letting his hands linger, his grinning face too close to mine until I struggled away from him self-consciously, using my elbows to pry his hands off me. He flashed a smirk at Peter (which wasn't returned) and I pulled at the torn skirt of my dress. He was trying to make me regret my offer.

"Now," Paul went on, "As I was saying before our little _interruption_…hide and seek. That's your favorite, Peter, isn't it?"

Peter's delicate little smile answered for him.

"We're all familiar with the game, of course. We'll be seeking, you'll be hiding. Anywhere in the house, of course, we'll hear if you try to go out. As for a head start, we'll give you…oh, how long do we usually do?"

"The Johnsons got thirty seconds," Peter responded, "Of course, there were more of them. It was funnier, four of them scrambling around like that."

"You're right," Paul said thoughtfully, "Hm. I'll say…sixty seconds, as a head start. Ample time makes for a very good game. And I always enjoy a good game."

"I bet," I remarked, and he smiled again.

"Are you ready?" he asked, as Peter came to stand beside him.

"On your mark…get set…"

Go.


	7. All Through The Night

Oh, gosh. Hello everyone. I'm so sorry this took so long. I'm currently on winter break from my very first semester of college, which I hope is an adequate explanation for the delay. I'm back on the writing kick and I definitely think I'll have the time (or at least the motivation!) to get through however many chapters end up being left in a less ridiculous time frame.

And, oh, just fair warning I suppose, I don't quite know the etiquette for this…certain events occurring between Paul and Daphne 'round the end of the chapter may be questionable or offensive to some (although this IS Funny Games, so I hope it's to be expected). I don't think I was graphic and I already rated the story "M", but I've never written anything like this before so feel free to talk to me if things require more of a warning, etc. Just covering my bases!

o0o

I didn't waste a millisecond. The two of us tore out of the kitchen and into the entryway towards the main staircase. I could hear Peter beginning to count; one Mississippi, two Mississippi…

"Go where we used to hide," I hissed at Theo, "Do you remember?"

He nodded once, looking about as sick as I felt as he reluctantly left my side. Theo and I had one thing working for us in this game, and it was the fact that Peter and Paul had no idea that the two of us knew this house like the backs of our hands. We'd spent plenty of summers exploring during boring family get-togethers, finding places to hide or spy and listen to adult gossip.

The hiding spot I'd sent him to in this particular instance was in the downstairs bathroom. One of the ceiling tiles above the sink was loose, and if you hauled yourself up there, shimmied the tile back into place and kept absolutely silent, you were undetectable. The trick was staying quiet. Aunt Deb, always paranoid, would yell at us if she saw us trying to get up there, convinced we'd get stuck and suffocate or damage the ceiling. There was no way I could fit anymore, but Theo was still thin enough and short enough to squeeze in there between the floors.

I watched him round the corner before I opened and slammed the basement door to confuse them. I then thundered up the staircase, making enough noise to let the boys know one of us had headed upstairs. The point was to get them to split up and head in two different directions.

I rushed into the first bedroom, the one I'd been staying in, and locked the door behind me. I was momentarily surprised to find that the music I'd turned on while changing was still playing on shuffle through the speakers - remembering that normalcy from only a few hours ago stunned me. I left it playing after a second of hesitation, hoping it would confuse them as well. Another thing Peter and Paul didn't know about the house just yet: the two guest bedrooms upstairs were the kind that connected, like the door in hotel rooms that opens to make a room into a double. I moved into the second bedroom, locking its main door, and then exited through the attached bathroom.

In the hallway I could hear Peter's counting muffled through the floor – twenty-one Mississippi, twenty-two Mississippi – and a terrible feeling of dread began to seize me as I finally ran into the master bedroom. The furnishings were light and beachy, a cute quilt thrown over the bed, pictures of seashells and starfish framed on the walls. I scanned the ceiling for the door to the attic, climbing on to the chest at the foot of the bed and clumsily pulling down the ladder that descended from it.

I felt shaky as I put one foot on the first rung, like I was about to be sick. My plan had taken me this far – get Theo hidden and ready to escape, set up the red herring hiding places, and finally hide myself rather obviously, ready to lure Paul in to make him think he'd trapped me. But it was occurring to me now that I hadn't really worked out anything to ensure that I would climb back down this ladder once the night was over.

In fact, if everything went as I'd set it up, it was rather likely that I wouldn't. Could I really do this?

I thought of Theo hiding in the bathroom downstairs, shivering in the dark, trying not to make a sound, and took another step up the ladder. Tears of pain stung my eyes as I tried to curl my hands awkwardly around the higher rungs and slowly climbed up into the attic. I couldn't hear the counting anymore, but I knew my time was winding down. I clenched my teeth and pulled the ladder back up slowly, leaving the entrance just slightly ajar so that the light from the bedroom tore an angled beam through the dusty dark.

Paul would notice. I meant for him to.

I perched there in the darkness for a moment, afraid to move. I couldn't hear anything from below, but I could clearly imagine the gleeful countdown; I pictured them cheating playfully, peering out of the kitchen, calling out the last ten seconds so they echoed dreadfully through the entryway. Theo would be able to hear it. You could hear everything from his hiding place.

I didn't move an inch, keeping track in my head. Five seconds. Four seconds. Three. Two. One.

The silence around me was unchanged. They were looking now. I strained my ears for even the smallest human sound.

I waited. The initial few seconds passed. A moment. A minute, maybe two. I waited. I waited. I wondered briefly if somehow they knew exactly where we were, and would let us hide until hours passed and we emerged back into their waiting arms. I wondered if my plan would fail, if it would be Peter instead of Paul to find me and simply slit my throat on the spot.

Most frighteningly, I wondered why it was I wanted Paul to be the one to chase me. My plan only required that Theo have one person to evade instead of two, and Peter would be no easier to run from than Paul. I felt betrayed by the part of me that had found him attractive when he'd walked in the door, that had gone warm at his touch even after he'd injured me, that had squirmed hotly under his gaze while simultaneously offering him anything he wanted. I recalled what he'd said to me outside – _You're the first to imply that I was fucking you._

I felt ashamed. I felt sick at myself and the awful truth that was making my heart beat with a quivery, jittery pulse. Somehow, I wanted this. I was curious. I wanted what I had started.

A soft noise from below tore me from my train of thought. Someone was in the hallway.

I wiped the lingering tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and positioned myself carefully so I could see a sliver of the scene below me: the door, the carpet, the chest I had stood on and a stretch of the bed. The master bedroom was still undisturbed. I listened so intently that I didn't even dare breathe.

The creak of a floorboard. A soft, male voice calling quietly, the words indistinguishable but the tone both taunting and tempting. Trying a doorknob. I jumped as a loud _bang_ indicated that he was trying to kick the door in. _Bang. BANG._ Music. He'd gotten into the bedroom with my things in it. A moment passed before the music stopped and I could hear nothing. He was searching silently. _Bang. Bang. BANG. _The next bedroom. He was calling to his target again, though I still couldn't make out his words. _Bang. Bang. BANG. _The bathroom. The hall closet.

I waited. Floorboards. _Bang. _I flinched violently. He was at the door to the master bedroom now. _Bang. _I scuttled backwards into the dark, taking cover in a half-assed hiding spot behind a few boxes. _BANG. BANG._ He was in the room now.

"Come out come out wherever you are," Paul's voice carried up, quiet and sing-song through the attic door, "_Someone_ is up here. Which one could it be?" His voice, as usual, betrayed no hint of the fact that he'd just kicked in a door. I could hear him checking beneath the bed, opening the private bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain. There was a pause in which I could hear nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat, so loud and fast in my throat that I'd have sworn he could hear it through the attic floor. He was moving at such a leisurely pace that I realized he _had_ to know exactly where I was. I took a breath silently through my mouth, picturing him standing in the room below and staring upwards, eyes trained on me directly through the ceiling. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I wasn't hiding from him.

I was waiting for him.

The long, slow creak of the ladder descending was almost a relief. The light from the bedroom cast a dim glow across the floor, but not enough to illuminate the shadows that lent me one last veneer of protection. I watched as the lean figure slowly appeared, head and shoulders and torso and legs. He stood there for a moment before kicking the door shut with a heavy _clunk_ and pulling the chain for the flimsy little light bulb dangling above his head. It washed the room in dim yellow light, taking the shadows from his curious face. He had one of the kitchen knives held loosely at his side, but it seemed like an afterthought.

"You keep surprising me, Daphne," he said, taking a seat on an old trunk and speaking with his head tilted up, uncertain of my exact position. He looked comfortable. "Most girls go for the window."

My eyes studied the look on his smooth face for a moment before I stood up from behind my box without any drama. I found myself imitating his impassive tone. "How'd you know it was me?"

His gaze snapped on to me instantly, but he didn't move. "Fifty-fifty shot," he said, eyes looking me up and down lazily, "Plus, blood on the ladder. You _really_ ought to get that hand looked at."

"I'll get the pediatrician to pencil me in," I responded dryly, surprising myself. I felt safer adapting his mask of politeness rather than laying my fear and uncertainty out in the open. I briefly imagined myself crying openly in front of him, begging for mercy, asking why, _why_ are you doing this? It would bore him, probably. At the moment I was a curiosity, and that would keep me alive for at least the next fifteen minutes.

Paul didn't smile, not exactly. He just kept looking at me with heavy, dark eyes.

"I'm going to ask you something, Daphne, and I don't want you to be offended like last time," he said, fiddling with the knife. "Indulge my curiosity."

"No promises," I told him. I didn't know where these answers kept coming from.

His gaze slipped down to the knife in his hands, running two fingers up and down the flat part of the blade absently. "Is there a reason you wanted to be alone with me so badly?"

My throat felt dry. The words '_you fucking fascinate me'_ occurred to me like a whisper in my ear, but I swallowed them. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well, I didn't peg you for a whore," he explained casually, "Which is usually how these little interludes go." He mockingly raised his voice up a few octaves, a breathy imitation of a girl's voice, "_Oh please, I'll do anything, just leave us alone!_ Then again, who knows?" He looked at me again, apparently reevaluating. "You tell me. _Are_ you a whore, Daphne?"

I made the dangerous choice of hitting back. "You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?"

"Oh! She bites!" Paul sprang to his feet, face lit up with dangerous delight, and I took a step back in spite of myself.

"See, I knew I liked you," he confided, coming closer as he gesticulated with the knife almost comically. I tried to back up to match each step he took towards me, but I was running out of space.

"You're smart…you're funny…you're certainly not hard on the eyes…" My back hit a support beam as he spoke and he suddenly closed the short distance between us, forcing me against it roughly with one forearm across my collarbone and the knife held threateningly in my face. "...But you don't know when to _shut_ _your_ _mouth_."

"I'm sorry," I choked desperately, terrified at the nerve I'd struck. I strained my neck trying to tilt my head away from him, but I couldn't look anywhere but his eyes. He was grinning at me, apparently delighted with my squirming.

"It's just, I don't think you _are_ sorry, Daphne," he told me, "You say these things and—and they're so _rude_. It's like you don't think I have feelings." He pressed more tightly against me. "And I can assure you, I have plenty of them."

No snappy remark came to me this time. I believed him. His eyes were terrifyingly full of feeling – the problem was discerning _which one_. Malice and excitement looked the same on him, as did anger and amusement, panic and confidence, lust and bloodlust. The uncertainty made me powerless; I was balancing on a very delicate point and I had no idea which way I would fall if I tried another step.

"You know what your problem is?" he went on, "I mean, the problem with people like you, Daphne? Nobody ever told you that you're _not important_. You get so wrapped up in your own little dramas that you stop thinking about everyone else. You think you care, but you don't. You _forget what you learned in church._"

Had I not been pinned to the beam behind me, I would have been shaking too violently to stand.

"…I…I never went to church," I managed, answering the expectation in his eyes, and even my voice was trembling.

"Oh, Daphne," Paul simpered at me, his look softening, suddenly full of condescending pity. "I have an idea. I think it's really going to help you, but you're going to have to trust me." He stopped pushing me against the pole but abruptly gripped the side of my face with his free hand, bringing our foreheads together and speaking so that his breath was hot on my face. "You trust me, don't you?"

This was too fucking good. I stared at him for a full ten seconds before answering, my voice weak but cracking with irony. "With my life."

"Great," he chirped, before stepping aside and shoving me to the ground in front of him. My palms flattened instinctively to break my fall, and I couldn't keep in the helpless little moan of pain that escaped from me as I hit the floor. Paul smiled faintly as I drew in short, gasping breaths through clenched teeth, trying to work through the searing burst of pain in my hands.

As I sat up, trying to get into a less vulnerable position, I realized that he'd thrown me in front of an old full-length mirror leaned up against some old furniture. The glass was vaguely dusty, but I could still see myself clearly as I sat up on my knees, shoulders hunched defensively. Paul stood behind me, a few paces away.

"You look a little pale, Daphne. Are you feeling alright?" he asked. My eyes flicked to him, he seemed to take that as answer enough. "We'll start, then."

He didn't continue on right away, so I took my opportunity, turning my head to speak to him. Getting him to talk was the only way I knew to postpone whatever was coming. "Does this game have a name?"

"No games," he said earnestly, "This is an exercise. Look at yourself in the mirror."

I turned and let my eyes rest upon my own face. My skin was pale, making the smear of blood on my cheek even more noticeable. My dress was ripped too short, my hands stained with red, my eyes dark. Paul stood with his hands clasped behind his back. I could see him looking at me.

"Now repeat after me," he instructed. "_I think of myself before others_."

"I think of myself before others," I repeated uncertainly, unsure of where this was going.

"_I am selfish and naïve."_

"I am selfish and naïve," I muttered.

"Ah ah," Paul scolded, "Like you mean it. _I want things that are bad for me_."

"I want things that are bad for me." I didn't like where these statements were heading.

Paul shifted, coming a few steps closer. "_And I will never learn_."

"And I will never learn." I didn't dare look up at him. I kept my eyes fixed on themselves in the mirror. The color of them, normally a deep brown, was barely noticeable in the dim lighting. From where I was kneeling, they looked black.

"_I liked it when you touched me_."

My heart dropped through the bottom of my ribcage, a sudden panicky heat flooding my body. I waited too long to answer.

He was kneeling behind me in a flash, wrestling one arm behind my back and crushing my cut hand viciously in his. The pain was so terrible that it choked a scream out of me that I was unprepared for, hacking and gasping because I had not even taken a breath for it. It filled the wooden quiet of the attic and I briefly wondered if Theo had made his move to escape yet – if he hadn't, could he hear me? Or were we so secluded that the sound wouldn't have even left the bedroom below? I didn't know which thought filled me with more dread.

"Would you like to try again, Daphne?" Paul asked into my hair, not yet releasing his grip. I was practically gagging, sick with the pain.

"I liked it when you touched me!" I shouted desperately. He let go, causing me to collapse sideways in relief, and I barely caught myself on one elbow. He didn't touch me again, waiting for me to regain myself. I lay there breathing heavily for a moment, dry heaving dangerously once, twice, before I could sit up again. I caught Paul's eye in the mirror and regretted it instantly.

"Could you repeat that?" he asked, "I didn't quite catch it."

I fixed my eyes on my chin – anywhere but his face. "I _liked_ it," I repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Paul smiled, sweeping the hair off of my neck. "I. Am. Flattered."

My skin felt hot where he'd grazed it, and I was ashamed that I could still feel a thing like that after what he'd just done to me, after what he was doing to me now. I was ashamed and panicking, because I knew now that the harm he was doing extended far beyond the physical. He was having too much fun with me to just kill me now – the way he was acting, he almost seemed like he wanted to _keep_ me.

I thought reluctantly of Peter downstairs in the kitchen, taking the abuse and the ridicule and still clinging on for more. He _belonged_ to him.

"Now maybe you'll do me the courtesy of _actually_ answering my question," Paul went on, leaning forward to rest his chin in the curve between my shoulder and my neck. My heart was pounding out of control. What was _wrong_ with me? His arms came around me, one to hold me in place and the other to press the knife flat against my cheek, the point of it resting by the corner of my eye. I blinked, feeling it there.

"I'll ask again," he murmured. "Why did you let me find you?"

My throat felt stuck, and I whispered my answer without meaning to. "I don't know."

He looked disappointed. "That's not a very good answer."

I swallowed. "But it's true."

"You can't think of a reason?" he asked, "Not _one_?" He shifted his head, a puzzled look on his face. It might have been cute on a normal human being.

I was no longer sure that I was making up my answers.. "…I…I just…"

"You just…?" he prompted.

My lips were dry. "…Wanted to."

I watched his face. I seemed to have said the magic words. His expression was terrifyingly triumphant, but he smiled and it was sharp and beautiful and the corner of my mouth jumped, tempted to smile back.

"Oh, Daphne," he chuckled, "That's pretty fucking _sick_." He looked at me for a second, his reflection wrapped around mine in the mirror, and then kissed the side of my face. I closed my eyes. He stopped.

"Come on, Daphne," he coaxed. He kissed my cheek again. It was hard to tell if he was mocking me or not. I squeezed my eyes more tightly shut. "_Daph_-ne," he murmured again, sing-song. Another kiss. He moved to my neck, and I made an embarrassingly pleased sound in spite of myself.

"What are you doing?" I asked, and when I opened my eyes, I saw that his were dark and heavy-lidded.

"Go ahead and stop me any time," he said.

The arm around my waist loosened, that hand moving slowly and deliberately across my ribs to my stomach. I shivered, and the corner of his mouth turned up.

"Now, let me see…where was I before I was so _rudely_ interrupted?" His voice betrayed no hint of the fact that his hand was moving downwards. "Right, of course. You don't happen to know any prayers, do you?"

"I…no," I breathed, confused by the question only because I was distracted feeling that hand slide south down my body with agonizing slowness.

"Nobody ever does," he replied, sounding disappointed, "I know one – it is, unfortunately, much too short, but it'll have to do. And – I think this might interest you – if you can say it back to me without any mistakes, you get to choose what happens next. Do you want to hear it?"

I wasn't quite sure what that meant for me, but I knew he wasn't really offering. I nodded as best I could with that knife still resting on my cheek.

He murmured it in my ear. "I love you, God, with all my might. Keep me safe all through the night." His hand paused at the shredded bottom of my dress. "Your turn."

I swallowed hard.

"I love you God…" My heart was pounding out of control. I tried to continue as his hand slid up my thigh slowly. "With…with all my might…" It disappeared under the shredded hem and announced itself with a sudden, terrifying, glorious pressure that made my mouth clamp shut and my body stiffen.

"Continue," he demanded, breath hot on my neck, and I was shaking so hard I thought I might come apart if I wasn't pressed against him so tightly.

"Keep me…keep me safe…oh _god_," I nearly lost it as he began applying the pressure and taking it away again in a steady rhythm. Both my hands grasped for something to hold on to, settling for his stationary arm. I grabbed him so hard that it knocked his grip on the knife; the blade scratched my face, drawing a stinging line of red blood down my cheek. I gasped, rolling my head on to his shoulder as I tried to turn my head away from the knife.

"Wrong," he murmured heatedly without pausing his actions. He was watching my face in the mirror. "Start over."

"I love you God…with all my might…" I drifted off abruptly, feeling desperate. He smiled faintly, feeling that my back was arching with the motion of his hand. He didn't stop and it felt so fucking good and I liked it and I hated it and I wanted to cry.

"Keep me safe…" I continued, that dizzy, terrifying pressure mounting inside me and my grip on his arm tightening, "…all through the night." I ended without drama and instead let my eyes close, now shamelessly squirming against him. Paul stopped abruptly and pushed me off his lap quite unceremoniously; I rolled slightly to right myself, sitting there on the wood floor in front of him, looking at him with wild eyes.

"I _told_ you," he said earnestly, "You choose what happens next."

I felt blood rushing everywhere except my brain. What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck was I _doing_? Half of me wanted desperately to bolt for the attic door stumbling and crying, although I knew I wouldn't make it more than a foot past him. The other half, the part of me that had closed my eyes and gripped his arm, wasn't going anywhere. I caught myself in the mirror and saw someone I didn't fully recognize; a girl with shadowed black eyes instead of my brown ones and blood on her skin. I looked away from her quickly, afraid to watch her staring back at me.

It would be easy to say that he held me down, but he didn't. Not then. I came when he pulled me towards him, and it was my hands as well as his desperately moving clothes from skin. He gripped me so tightly that it hurt but I shifted above him, hands on his shoulders and then on his chest pressing down and he was grinning, grinning, grinning like a cat whose canary had just invited him in until I started to move. His mouth opened as I kept on pushing him down, his eyes hooded and nearly closed. I had no idea where the knife was now. I doubted he was even holding it anymore. There was a terrible thing inside me now, but my head was too full of rushing, pounding blood to think or hear or really feel anything besides the movement of spines and the rhythm I had not consciously settled into.

If he had been laughing at me before, he wasn't now. For the moment, I had the power. I let my head fall back. All I saw was the starbursts behind my eyes and all I heard was a strangled, persistent sort of groaning and I wasn't sure which one of us it was coming from. I tried to look at him but my eyes were blurring. I felt a terrible, lovely heat spear through me and it was all suddenly too much to feel at once and I wanted nothing more than to slump over dead at seventeen.

He flipped us over eventually, as boys do, and I wasn't sure how much time had passed. My back was flat to the hard floor and could feel what bruises I would have in the morning, if I made it until then. I closed my eyes, wondering if he would put me through the floor.

It was more than once, lots of starts and finishes, but it never occurred to me to keep count. It all seemed to blend together into one act that didn't quite seem to end, as if he would never stop, never let me get up again. I wasn't even sure which one of us was in control. All I knew was that if I held on tightly I could feel instead of think, and that was relief enough for me.

I would never quite know how long it lasted. Perhaps eventually I would have come back to myself and started to cry and scream and fight him off me. Maybe he would have put a hand over my mouth and gone on as he pleased, more clearly defining the line between crime and consent that would confuse me so much later, no matter what anyone told me.

I would never know any of that for sure, all because of one sound.

Out of nowhere, a scream tore upwards through the house like a gunshot. Paul froze inside of me, more genuinely shocked than I had ever thought he could look. My body went cold, stomach plummeting and pulse rocketing as I suddenly snapped from my trance.

The voice was female. My aunt was home.


	8. I'll Be Seeing You

We separated in an instant, both of us scrambling for clothes. I tried to get up, but Paul seized my arm as though he meant to break the bone, his expression furious and wild as he dragged me to my feet. We were staggering down the ladder before I knew it, and my grip was so clumsy and shaky from his hold on me that I missed the last few rungs and fell hard to the floor. Another banshee shriek rose from downstairs, and my heart was pounding so quickly that I thought I was going to be sick. I stumbled into a standing position, making for the door.

"Aunt Deb!" I screamed back, "_Aunt_ _D_—!"

I was silenced as Paul fell on me instantly, a hand over my mouth and the other arm banded like steel around my waist. I was fighting now though, harder than I thought I ever could, harder than should have been possible for a girl my size. I wanted out. We were going to get out of here. We were going to _live_. I freed an arm and threw it back with all the strength I had, my elbow making sickening contact with his ribs. He swore loudly, and I began struggling even more wildly. I got a good connection with the floor and forced us to crash against the wall, and when his grip loosened, managed to slip from his arms. I dodged the initial snatch he made for me, and I was free.

I ran for the door, wrenched it open and flung myself into the hallway, my feet pounding the floor. I could hear Paul close behind, but it didn't matter. It was over. He couldn't touch me. "Aunt Deb!" I shrieked again, hurtling down the stairs, seeing where I was going but not really processing the sight in front of me. I just wanted her to call back to me.

It was only when my bare feet hit the tile floor and slid on something wet that I realized something was wrong. I halted in my tracks, and it was Paul who pushed past me in a frenzied panic. I stood there frozen at the bottom of the stairs, my eyes wide and glued to the floor.

Uncle Nick lay crumpled in a heap on his side by the front door. His eyes were blank and pale, staring unblinkingly straight ahead of him. His jaw was slack, his mouth agape, and a jagged line of red was cut straight across the front of his throat. He looked as though he'd barely made it three steps inside the door.

The commotion in the kitchen caught my attention. Reeling, I stepped quickly to the side and headed through the doorway, still not understanding what it was I had stepped in. What I saw there was not much better.

Paul was pulling Peter off the slim woman lying on the floor. I couldn't see her face, but I recognized the clothing. Aunt Deb. They were arguing. I couldn't understand what they were saying. There was a knife in Peter's hand. I didn't understand what was happening. I could see red creeping across the tile floor. I moved slowly towards them, as if in a dream. I got close enough to see the curve of her chin, though her face was obscured by the legs of the kitchen table. Peter and Paul were arguing very heatedly now. Paul had taken the knife now. I didn't understand what was happening. Why was she just lying there? Why had she stopped screaming?

They were coming towards me now, but I just stood where I was. Paul paused to scrutinize me. I looked past him. I didn't understand. Then hands were clamped on my shoulders, forcing me backwards back into the hallway. He gave me a rough push into the living room and I stumbled easily over the arm of the couch, landing on my side.

My eyes finally registered Theo sitting on the loveseat by himself, and my mind sharpened back up at once. I sat up. He hadn't made it out. Peter had caught him. God, had there even been a chase? Had he been tied up this whole time while Peter waited patiently for Paul to return? He was bound and gagged even more thoroughly than before, his face and hands streaked with dirt and tears cutting paths down his cheeks. He seemed no more injured than he had before, but he was crying, screaming at me from behind the tape on his mouth. Something occurred to me suddenly, and I looked down.

Blood. I had been stepping in blood.

I turned my head and dry heaved so violently that tears stung my eyes, clutching the arm of the couch. It took a moment for my stomach to stop committing mutiny, and my arms quivered uncontrollably as though all the strength had been drained out of them. My hearing suddenly decided to start working again, the words of the argument in the hallway finally registering with me.

"—don't know what's gotten _into_ you, Tubby, you don't think! What're we supposed to do now? You're _lucky_ she didn't finish dialing that fucking phone—"

"I panicked! You always say to wait for you but they just drove up, they were coming to the door – and where were you for an _hour_ _and_ _a_ _half_, by the way?"

"I was upstairs, Einstein. I thought you could deal with a fucking _ten_ year old but I guess I was wrong."

"An hour and a half! What were you _doing_?"

There was a pause from Paul's end of the conversation. I couldn't see the expression on his face, but whatever it was, it gave him away. Peter spoke again.

"You fucking bastard." His voice was low and heavy with betrayal, "Tell me you didn't."

"Jesus Christ, Tubby, what _is_ it with you tonight?" Paul asked. I could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"Don't call me that!" Peter demanded, his voice almost shrill. "Tellmeyou_ didn't!"_

"What is your _deal_?" Paul asked again.

"You did. You did, you fucking bastard!" Peter's voice was faltering.

"Are you _crying_?" Paul was laughing at him, sounding absolutely delighted as something dawned on him. "Are you…fuck, are you _jealous?_"

"It's your rule!" Peter cried, his voice cracking. I could hear him resisting tears painfully, straining to keep face in front of his bully. "You were the one who made the rule!"

"You fucking fairy!" Paul taunted him joyfully, "You're jealous!"

"Stop it!" Peter was openly crying now, humiliated for a second time that night, "Just _stop_."

"You little fag, you're unbelievable!" There was still a laugh in Paul's voice. "You cut open auntie and uncle as soon as they walk in the door without blinking, but I touch a girl and you start sobbing like Bambi's mother died. You're _priceless_." He paused, the laugh fading from his voice gently. "Okay, stop the crying."

Peter kept on at it though, choking up the kind of helpless, frustrated sobs that come when you don't know how to stop. The sound was muffled, as if he had turned away or covered his face. I was still incapable of looking anywhere but the carpet directly beneath me, begging my stomach to stop churning.

Paul sighed heavily. "I'm serious. Stop. It's annoying."

There were a few more moments of quiet punctuated only by Peter's heavy breathing before it registered with me that the tone of it had turned more violent. I heard a sudden shatter and the sounds of movement.

"_Whore_," I heard him growl loudly at me.

"Tom, Jesus _fuck_—" Paul reacted too late, and I had barely a second to anticipate the vicious hands that grabbed me by the hair and under my arms, dragging me over the back of the couch and on to the floor. He knocked the air out of me and I couldn't work up more than a desperate, shrill sort of gasp as Peter pinned me to the carpet, fighting with me as I struggled against him in shock. His left glove was ripped, and I realized abruptly that he'd punched the glass of the cabinet in the hallway. He was shouting at me, but I had once again forfeited my hearing in favor of focusing on the shard of glass in his hand. I felt something wet on my cheek as he turned my head up, prepared to slash, and I realized that he was crying on to me.

The pressure on my chest was gone suddenly. I heard another, more massive crash, and it took me a moment to process that Paul had dragged Peter off of me and shoved him into the bookshelves along the side of the room. Paul assumed his friend's place before I could even consider sitting up, this time holding me down by the shoulders. He looked more pointedly into my eyes than anyone ever had before, and I flashed suddenly on the feeling of him inside me from barely twenty minutes before. Time had dragged on then, but it was certainly escaping me now.

"What's _wrong_ with you, Jerry?" Peter wailed miserably from the floor.

Paul ignored him. "I'm afraid we've gotten a little overexcited," he told me sincerely but breathlessly, "we may have to take a break." His eyes dropped abruptly to the pendant on my necklace, a simple silver letter _D_. He half smiled and reached for it on a whim, giving the chain such a sharp yank that it broke painfully on my neck. He held it up briefly, examining the initial on the dangling chain. "I'll be seeing you, Daphne. Cross my heart."

With that, Paul stood and brushed his hands off on his knees. He shoved my necklace in his pocket and winked at me before crossing the room to his dazed partner. Peter was on the floor still trying to get up, surrounded by the debris of the glass bookshelves and decorative figurines he'd smashed into when Paul had thrown him across the room. He looked as though he'd hit his head.

"C'mon, Tom," Paul sighed in exasperation, stooping to help his friend. He hauled Peter to his feet and caught him when he staggered, making a halfhearted attempt to come at me again. Paul slung his arm around his neck, half dragging him into the entranceway.

Peter mumbled something indistinctly, and Paul scrunched up his face. "We got pizza _last_ week, fatty," I heard him mutter, and then they were gone.

The front door opened and slammed shut. After a long, agonizing moment I heard a car start up and slowly drive away.

I waited some more, just lying there, afraid to get up. I thought it might be a trick. I heard a soft _thud_ as Theo hit the floor with his knees, struggling over to me.

"Shit," I murmured aloud, sitting up gingerly. For a moment I had almost forgotten about him. I crawled over to him, closing the three or so feet of carpet between us. "Shit, Theo. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I peeled the tape off of his mouth and he cried out once, squeezing his eyes shut as more tears started to leak from them. I knew it wasn't from the pain. I offered no comforting words to him, simply working in silence as I tore at the bonds around his wrists and ankles. He was so young and he didn't understand, but I had no language to explain cruelty to him, nor grief, nor scars, nor my own filth. Freeing Theo, getting him somewhere safe; these were the only things I could manage to do for him.

"We're going," I told him finally, and stood up. "We're going right now."

Theo hesitated, and I yanked him to his feet.

"_Daphne_," he begged, and I ignored him.

"Close your eyes," I told him, holding his elbow, and I refused to move until he did. "Keep them closed."

I steered him through the hallway and into the kitchen, my eyes fixed stonily ahead of me on the back door. Against my will I registered the motionless figure on the floor. Something occurred to me and I paused, glancing again at Theo.

"Keep them closed," I whispered again. I bent to my knees, kneeling at Aunt Deb's feet. I didn't allow myself to look at anything except her legs. Quietly, I slid her shoes off her feet – a pair of simple flats – and slipped my bare feet into them. When I stood again, I caught my own black reflection in the window of the back door. I stared hard at my own eyes briefly, took hold of Theo, and opened the door.

And we ran.

o0o

Dr. Dillon eventually realizes that my silence means I have finished. He glances down at his file, and then back up at me.

"The report here says you were picked up five blocks away. Emergency services called by a Mrs. Angela Harrelson."

"We were running through backyards," I tell him, "She was taking out the trash and she heard Theo throw up in their garden." I don't smile, focusing instead on my hands in my lap. I remember dragging him yards and trees and bushes and not letting him stop for anything until he dropped to his knees and retched. I had been so convinced that they would find us again somehow, that it couldn't possibly be over. There is a long silence between us before Dr. Dillon speaks again.

"Daphne," he begins slowly, "I know this has been difficult, but once they take you back to hospital a rape kit exam can be made available to you—"

"It wasn't," I interrupt him quietly, too ashamed to say it louder. I had hoped he would have drawn that conclusion himself. I'd said it very plainly He looks at me carefully.

"Victims often put the blame on themselves—"

"He didn't rape me," I say again. "I don't know what happened."

He looks at me again for a long, quiet moment. The look in his eyes makes me want to cry. "Daphne," he tells me, "No one is going to blame you. You were taken advantage of, even if you don't realize that quite yet. Our minds tell us strange things when they think it will help us survive." He clicks his pen shut and leans towards me compassionately, but I keep my back rigid against the chair, the furthest away I can possibly be sitting from him.

He goes on. "It's very common for victims of crimes like this to become protective of their captors, even fond of them. It's a method of self preservation. It probably kept you alive, Daphne; you _and_ your brother. You didn't do anything wrong."

I avoid his kind gaze as he tries to meet my eyes. I don't want him to be thinking about me. I don't want to be here at all anymore. I am not fond of Paul. I am consumed with him. I feel him all over and inside of me and over my shoulder, like he can see me even when he can't possibly be near. I hear his voice in my ear. I still taste him.

Worst of all, I don't hate it.

"Please don't tell them," I ask him, my voice almost inaudible. I have not moved my gaze from the dead center of the table. "My family. Please don't."

"Daphne," Dr. Dillon begins, and my head snaps up viciously.

"Can I go?" I snarl, and I can tell from the look on his face that my black mirror eyes are back and he has gotten them full force. I am already standing by the time he tells me, yes, I may. I am no longer comfortable being alone with a man whose job it is to see the dark things inside of people.

"You need to talk to someone, Daphne," he tells me earnestly as I grasp the door handle. "A therapist. _Someone_. No one should hold all of this alone."

I avoid his eyes. "I'll do that," I lie to him in a toneless voice, and then close the door behind me.


End file.
